Without a home, but hardly without a vision

By Paul Grondahl

Updated 6:31 am, Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Ira McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker who has produced a film on society's "throwaways," on Tuesday, July 9, 2013, on Grand Street in Albany, N.Y. (Cindy Schultz / Times Union)

Ira McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker who has...

Ira McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker who has produced a film on society's "throwaways," on Tuesday, July 9, 2013, at the State Library in Albany, N.Y. (Cindy Schultz / Times Union)

Ira McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker who has...

Ira McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker who has produced a film on society's "throwaways," on Tuesday, July 9, 2013, on Grand Street in Albany, N.Y. (Cindy Schultz / Times Union)

Ira McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker who has...

Ira McKinley, left, talks with Stacy Pettigrew, executive director of Radix Ecological Sustainability Center, on Tuesday, July 9, 2013, on Grand Street in Albany, N.Y. McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker, has produced a film on society's "throwaways," (Cindy Schultz / Times Union)

Ira McKinley, left, talks with Stacy Pettigrew, executive director...

Ira McKinley, right, talks with friends on Tuesday, July 9, 2013, on Grand Street in Albany, N.Y. McKinley, a homeless man and documentary filmmaker, has produced a film on society's "throwaways," (Cindy Schultz / Times Union)

He moved past the reference desk and dropped into an upholstered swivel office chair at a cubicle in front of a computer terminal. He leaned back, charged a cellphone and started answering emails, just like he owned the place.

The State Library serves as a de facto office for the 49-year-old Air Force veteran, community activist, filmmaker, ex-convict and homeless man. He is a producer and creative force behind the documentary film "The Throwaways," a narrative that traces McKinley's troubled past and the larger struggle for economic and social justice in the city's impoverished South End and beyond.

It's an angry rant captured with handheld cameras, panning shots of abandoned buildings, closeups of clenched fists at local protests and interviews with frustrated inner-city residents and a hip-hop soundtrack. McKinley is well-read and articulate, his politics a mash-up of Malcolm X, Cornel West and Angela Davis.

"Ira got impatient with the traditional route for social change and decided to get vocal and to push back," said Bhawin Suchak, the film's co-director, producer, cinematographer and editor. "I hope people will be inspired by Ira's story. He faced a lot of tough things and overcame them."

Filmed with $10,000 raised through Kickstarter, a rough cut of "The Throwaways" was screened locally last winter. McKinley is trying to schedule showings around the state this fall in a bid to raise an additional $45,000 for post-production in the hope of landing a distributor.

"It's a challenge," he said, "but I don't give up easily."

McKinley grew up in Ithaca. When he was 14, his father was shot and killed by police outside Miami. "The cops said he was drunk and swinging a pipe," McKinley said.

After high school, he joined the Air Force and was stationed at Cannon Air Force Base in New Mexico. He later took classes at community colleges but could not find a direction after the military. He ended up homeless in Northampton, Mass., slept in Pulaski Park and learned filmmaking at a community TV station. He drifted to Albany, where his mother and two sisters lived. Crack addiction sent him into a tailspin. Disc jockey gigs could not support his habit. He served three years in state prison for an attempted robbery conviction.

"I was robbing bodegas and people. I could have wound up shot to death if I didn't get arrested," he said.

He completed parole several years ago but has not found a steady job and bounced between homeless shelters. A felony conviction and brash tongue have not helped his employment chances. He scrapes by on freelance film work and the largess of friends.

McKinley migrated to the State Library after a falling-out — he acknowledges a knack for agitating and irritating — with the folks at Grand Street Community Arts who had given him free workspace in the old St. Anthony's Church.

"I've been kicked out of a bunch of places. I'm too radical and have a big mouth. But I'm not going to stop my activism for anybody," he said. McKinley speaks in a deep, booming voice. A raspy cough is a byproduct of cigarettes and nights of couch surfing with friends until he invariably ticks them off.

In the State Library, he competes for limited computers among a cadre of street people who have turned the public space with great views into a kind of urban Starbucks, minus the $4 lattes.

McKinley takes up daily residence in front of a computer with free high-speed Internet access to rep for "The Throwaways" and to argue for social justice for the 99 percent. The fact that he's trying to upend The Establishment from within a monolithic government complex built by Gov. Nelson A. Rockefeller, the ultimate 1 percenter, is a delicious irony.

He was in the trenches of the Occupy Albany encampment in Academy Park, video camera in hand. He adopts an in-your-face approach and imagines conspiracies of the powerful and politically connected around every corner. He casts himself as someone who speaks truth to power and uses film and social activism to give voice to the voiceless.

"I see him as a gentle giant and find it admirable that he's trying to help his community and make things better," said Suzanne Skaarup, a clerk who works at the State Library's reference desk. She occasionally has to call security guards when tempers flare over the scrum for computers but has had no trouble from McKinley, whose aggressive activism is tempered by a sweet-talking streak. She has politely turned aside his flirtations and invitations to go tango dancing.

"When he speaks the truth, people get mad at him," said Ernie Miller Sr., a fixture on a Grand Street stoop near the corner with Madison Avenue. "But the point is, he speaks the truth. So to hell with 'em."